


Endless Forms Most Beautiful

by Ridiculosity



Category: Sherlock (TV)
Genre: Badass Molly, Despicable Sebastian Moran, F/M, Kidnap!Lock, Major Depictions of Violence, Molly appreciation, Psychological Torture, Sherlock Helpless, Sherlolly - Freeform, Strong!Molly, Warstan
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2015-02-06
Updated: 2015-02-24
Packaged: 2018-03-10 19:01:17
Rating: Mature
Warnings: Graphic Depictions Of Violence
Chapters: 5
Words: 11,585
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/3300254
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Ridiculosity/pseuds/Ridiculosity
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>While Darwin played an important part in Molly's life, she was yet to understand his significance in her context. And Moran provided the perfect opportunity by kidnapping her, giving her plenty of time for such chains of thought. Molly Centric. Implied Sherlolly. M for torture. strong!Molly.</p>
            </blockquote>





	1. Voice of Capture

**Author's Note:**

> I think a few of you may have seen this fic on ff.net. The only reason I did not post it for so long was that I was hoping it would fit seamlessly with Mockingbirds. However, it did not work, and I am perfectly fine with that. This is a stand alone for now, but it may or may not get a sequel after my exams finally get over. If you really want to read it on ff, you can find me there. And - I'd like to point out that the inspiration for this fic was from darthsydious and her fic 'I've Got Soul But I'm Not a Soldier.'

_“Whilst this planet has gone cycling on according to the fixed law of gravity, from so simple a beginning endless forms most beautiful and most wonderful have been, and are being, evolved.”_

-        Charles Darwin, the Origin of Species

* * *

 

Molly was quite often unsure of what was the underlying theme that ran where humanity was concerned, or where life was concerned – and she didn’t pretend to understand it. Thoughts like that were saved primarily for the walk between the barista and the morgue, but now, she had endless time to think of them.

The Consulting Detective, of course, would scoff her need to think of such realities. Molly had never been extraordinarily smart, never extraordinarily popular and never really extraordinary in anything except conducting autopsies. Molly didn’t have a super power like Sherlock, and Sherlock didn’t think it necessary to think about the futility of existence. But Molly had time. She was in an abandoned warehouse, bound and chained in a harness.

It hurt, quite honestly. She felt sure her shoulders were pulled out of their sockets.

She hadn’t been paying attention when Moran had slipped into the morgue. She hadn’t had the time to think about anything except the man who had pressed his hand to her mouth, preventing her scream.

“Miss Molly,” he said with a grin. “I have been wishing to meet you for a while.”

Molly gave a muffled scream.

“It won’t help, I’m afraid. There’s no one around on your late night shifts. I checked.”

Molly had been thinking frantically. Mycroft’s men were outside, she knew they were, she knew their names. Jonathan and Nathaniel. Nathaniel had a wife, and she was pregnant. He loved her more than anything, along with their dog. He liked eating burgers, so she used to get him McDonalds whenever she was getting take out. Jonathan had plenty of steady dates and a soft spot for Molly. He liked Chinese.

“They think you have already gone home. I sent a text from your phone telling them that Sherlock was coming in a cab to pick you up. Mr. Holmes left an hour ago with a woman, did he not?”

She had been a witness. The morgue had been Sherlock and that woman’s rendezvous.

And then Jonathan and Nathaniel’s shift ended.

None would know. It was perfect. The next set of boys would be briefed on how Molly was in Baker street, and they would watch for the night. The next morning, Sherlock may leave early without checking on Molly – he did have a case, after all. Molly had the weekend off from tomorrow. 

Sherlock may not realize until nighttime tomorrow. And that was a long shot.

It had been only then that Molly realized in what a dangerous situation she was in.

But before she could understand what was happening, she had been carried off, a swift smell of Chloroform in her nose. Crude, Sherlock would have said. But effective.

Molly only woke up at what looked like an abandoned warehouse. Molly’s own hands were tied behind her back – tightly. There was no one else there except Mr. Moran – and a girl with blonde hair.

She had short, crisp hair which didn’t go beyond her ears. Her build was lean, strong, athletic. She was dressed in black, and she did nothing more than glance at Molly for a second. Moran smiled slowly at Molly.

“Nice to meet you, Miss Hooper.”

Molly took a breath, “Pleasure’s all mine.”

“I must say, Sherlock Holmes guarded you well. Hiding in his flat all this while – one may even get the _wrong impressions.”_

Molly blinked for a second. “If you’re doing this because you think he has the – erm – romantic regard for me,” she said, “you’re going to be disappointed.”

Moran looked at her with a mixture of amusement.

“Do you really think so?”

Molly was briefly reminded of Atticus Finch – Moran had a very similar glint in his eye. “Yes,” said Molly as honestly as possible. “I’m not the one who – ouch,” she shifted her bound arm a bit, causing shooting pains up her shoulder. “I’m really not the one who counts. That’s John. Everybody knows that.”

Moran was continuing to look at her with amusement. “Is she lying?” he asked the woman next to him. Sonja, that was her name.

Sonja walked forward, emotionlessly. In one, swift maneuver, she had Molly’s arms twisted to the maximum pain.

Molly screamed. “No –” she gasped. “Please –” she twisted harder. “I’m not _lying!”_ she said. “I don’t mean anything to Sherlock – I’m – I’m his pathologist,” she cried. “I only perform the autopsies.”

Sonja released pressure.

“How odd,” said Moran. “She’s not lying.”

 “Well, Miss Hooper,” Moran squatted down, looking down upon her. Molly squeezed her eyes shut to control herself from screaming. “Why were you living with him?”

“He asked me,” gasped Molly. “Please – he asked me. I was his only friend who didn’t have protection. Greg was an officer. John can shoot, and Mycroft –” the pain increased and Molly gasped again. “Mycroft is the government.”

“Hmm,” said Moran. “She believes her tale, whatever else may be said about Mr. Holmes.”

Sonja dropped the pressure entirely, and went to her post. Molly almost cried with relief.

 “Well, Miss Hooper,” said Moran. “We shall test your theories over the next few weeks, shall we not?”

Molly whimpered. “I don’t have anything you need,” she said.

“No,” said Moran. “You have information. I like information.”

There came a cold, steely glint in Molly Hooper’s eye. “You shan’t get anything.”

Moran smiled, in the same, amused fashion. “We’ll see about that.”

* * *

 

It was pain on pain.

Molly could barely breathe. She screamed again, and again, to no avail. If she had thought the blonde girl had been hurtful, she hadn’t prepared herself for Moran. Besides, crop cut Sonja was hardly ever there.

She was harnessed to the ceiling – her arms were pulling out of their sockets and everything was hurting. Everything.

“Now come on, Molly,” said Moran, quietly wielding the burning knife. “What are the recent cases Mr. Holmes has had?”

Molly whimpered. _Shut your eyes, Molly. Don’t hear. You’re not here. You’re somewhere else._

“Why was he using poor, pathetic Molly Hooper?”

Molly sobbed quietly.

“What use did he have of _you,_ Miss Hooper?

She had to concentrate. _Sherlock’s secrets. She couldn’t give Sherlock’s secrets._

“Is Irene Adler really dead?”

_Secrets. Sherlock’s secrets. All the things he kept from his friends._

“How did Sherlock survive the fall? Was Mousy Molly helping him?”

 _He had so many secrets,_ thought Molly, ruefully. _So many. From John. From Mary. From me._

“Torture really doesn’t work with you, does it?”

Molly briefly looked up. Three days since she had been there. “Please,” she whispered. “Make it stop. I don’t know anything.”

“Ah, Miss Hooper. We both know you are lying. I shall give you a break.”

Molly hadn’t slept in three days.

Moran had successfully managed to break her arm, during that time. Molly could feel swells and bumps and bruising. There were burns from today’s session.

Molly’s head hung from the height she was at. She could feel new contusions coming up.

 _“Take off your shoes, now,”_ she sang. “ _You’ve come a long way. Walked all these miles, and now – you’re in the right place.”_

Sherlock used to get aggravated when she sang that.

_“Molly, please. I’m trying to work.” His head was bent upon the microscope._

_“Sorry,” she said quietly._

Poor Sherlock. He would blame himself, she knew. But Molly wouldn’t wish this pain on him.

Sherlock had been through worse.

Sherlock had suffered for over two years.

He had all those scars on his back.

She had seen them by mistake – he had returned home hurt, and Molly had insisted on bandaging him. She hadn’t touched him, she’d made sure skin on skin contact wasn’t there – she hadn’t meant to make Sherlock uncomfortable. Even so… he had been.

Suffering this for three days didn’t seem all that bad.

She simply had to block out all that pain. It wasn’t possible to survive for long if this continued.

* * *

 

Ms. Rook was obviously an alias, but Sebastian Moran had no interest in knowing where Sonja Rook came from originally. She was what was needed for the moment, nothing more – a desperate woman with an unattainable skill set on the run. He did love people who were on the run. They were easily manipulated.

“She doesn’t seem to respond to the methods very well, does she?” said Miss Rook easily.

“No,” said Moran. “She’s hard to decipher. She hasn’t really given any information as of yet, and I don’t think any is forthcoming. This one is going to be hard.” His eyes gleamed at the prospect.

“Is it possible she doesn’t know anything?” asked Miss Rook, frowning.

“No, she definitely has the information we are looking for. I need to know how Mr. Holmes survived.”

“It’s odd – for someone to be so unwilling to give information about something as trivial as that.”

Moran grinned. “I enjoy breaking the tough ones a lot, to be honest. Besides, she’s oblivious to her relation with Mr. Holmes.”

Miss Rook was frowning at the diminished Molly. “She’s singing a song.”

“Really?” asked Moran curiously.

“Yes.”

Molly’s voice rose from the room and filtered into the next one – it passed through the chipped window panes and fluttered through the dust.

 _“This is your party. Everyone came – everyone’s smiling. And –”_ her voice choked. “ _and singing your name. And the nightmares and monsters – the nightmares and monsters –”_ her head fell. She seemed to be thinking about something – for she raised her head a second later. “ _Your biggest fears – seem lightyears away. No they won’t find you here.”_ There was a quiet sort of fire in her fading words.

“That’s very interesting,” said Moran.

“Have you seen that happen before?” asked Rook.

“No, this is a first.” Moran seemed even more amused than normal.

“Is she normal?” asked Rook.

“Genius, I should say,” said Moran. “I have some ideas, worry not.”

“Try the thumbscrews -?” said Rook.

“Why not?”

Moran left the room – Molly looked up fearfully.

“What an odd girl,” said Rook quietly. She could see Molly visibly brace herself for what was coming next. She threw her head back and screamed – that was normal. But every now and again – Rook saw something very strange – every once and while, Molly would take a few deep breaths, and hum to herself words of an unintelligible song.


	2. Cut and Dried

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> This one is going to be pretty brutal. It only gets better from next chapter, so yeah.

_“Take off your shoes now, you’ve come a long way. Walked all these miles and now you’re in the right place. This is your party – and everyone came. Everyone’s smiling – and singing your name. The nightmares and monsters, your biggest fears. Seem lightyears away – no, they won’t find you here.”_

_Sherlock was watching Molly from the corner of his eye. She was cooking – Molly tended to cook when she was sad, or when she had a tiring day. A fact Mycroft had taken advantage of multiple times. She was baking tonight. It was the song that always got Sherlock – she sang it occasionally, but periodically and she was always in a strange mood when she did._

_“I’ll hold your head, my dear – make sure no one’s going to wake you. Tomorrow you’ll still be here, no matter where your dreams will take you.”_

_She was swaying to herself, singing her plaintive melody. Sherlock wondered what the original song was – it seemed so – light, airy – layered. Like an equation that was simple to see – but had many, many layers, many implications._

_“Do you realize –_ _all the falls and flights – all the sleepless nights – all the smiles and sighs. They brought you here. They only brought you home_ _.”_

_Why did Molly sing that song? Why? Why was she always singing that song? Every single time. And only on particular times – Molly sang that song when she was – well, Sherlock did not know how to place a word for it._

_Molly sang that song when the autumn came – she sang it quietly, softly, to herself – not in the shower, like those awful songs from pop culture that she preferred in the shower. She sang this one in her room, by herself. She sang it when she was alone, when the sky was ink black and orangey – when the world was quiet and twilight. Molly sang that song in memory, in thoughts of the future – she sang it to remind herself of something – Sherlock wasn’t sure what._

_“Would you like some cake, Sherlock?” she asked brightly, her face smiling, no trace of the song she sang to herself._

Sherlock’s eyes opened. For a moment – for a moment it had seemed like Molly was there, beside him, singing. His mind palace was very deceptive some times.

“We will find her, mate,” said John.

Sherlock didn’t say anything, preferring to stare into the distance.

“Look, Sherlock – you haven’t said anything since you discovered she was missing.”

John glanced briefly at Mary, who was watching Sherlock with a mixture of thoughtfulness and thinking.

“He’s not moved since then,” said John worriedly.

“I know,” said Mary evenly.                                            

“She was supposed to be coming home that evening,” said Sherlock, finally.

They watched him carefully. Sherlock didn’t bother to get up. He continued staring into the distance, and placed the tips of his fingers together. “She was supposed to be making cake because she had a tiring day. She was going to go inside, plug her headphones, and watch a silly movie. I didn’t want her seeing those movies, so I did not go to check if she actually came home.”

“Sherlock, this isn’t your fault –” began John.

“Then who’s is it?” asked Sherlock, sharply.

“Ours,” said Mary quietly, with conviction. “All of ours. Molly’s a soldier, Sherlock, and she fights for the good for everyone. It makes it hard for all of us to see that maybe sometimes, she needs help as well.”

Sherlock smiled briefly. “She always was a brave one.”

“Yes,” said Mary. “And you have to find her. It’s been one night since she went missing – you haven’t moved. What have you discovered?”

Sherlock gave the briefest looks of gratitude to Mary and John. “The man who took her was of a military background, sniper, I should think. Tallish – probably six. He’s well built, he’s intelligent, and most worryingly – he seems to have this curious habit of hurting things around him. There was a cat which was in the same ally as Barts. Strangled.”

John gripped Mary’s hand.

“Yes,” said Sherlock.

“What else?” asked John.

“He was definitely in the army. He probably served in the same war as you – either Afghanistan, or Iraq. His skillset hasn’t faded enough for him to be older than that. The relationship between Moriarty and him seems ambiguous, but we need to find out who it was before we proceed further.”

“Didn’t Moriarty have a team of snipers?” asked John.

“Yes, but this one’s different!” Sherlock walked up to the wall – “we’re going to need information. As much as possible. All the information on Moriarty. The man has an attachment with Moriarty which should definitely be traceable. It could, in face, also be sexual in nature. He has an injury on his arm – it causes him to hitch it and roll his shoulders once in a while. Light feet – and he used Chloroform on Molly. That should say something about him anyway. Crude, but effective.”

“Consider my help in,” said a voice by the door.

The familiar umbrella and three piece suit had finally made its appearance. “As if we need ask,” scoffed John.

“Well. I don’t voluntarily give my help, Dr Watson. You may consider this – out of place _.”_

“Then why are you coming now?” asked Mary.

“Miss Hooper –” said Mycroft, “Is under my protection, shall we say. Everything I have is at your disposal to use. Including all the files on Moriarty.”

“Excellent,” said Sherlock. “Bring them in. It’s been one night. Molly’s probably already been through worse than what she deserves.”

As the brothers walked into the kitchen to bicker, John muttered to Mary – “don’t you have to blackmail Mycroft to be under his protection?”

Mary cracked her toothy grin that John found so endearing.

“Molly’s cakes, I should think, are blackmail enough.”

* * *

 Moran touched Molly’s brown hair and Molly cringed. “Sherlock,” she whispered. “Please.”

“Imagining Mr. Holmes touching you like that? Tut tut, Molly,” said Moran.

“I block you out like that,” she said quietly.

“I imagined as much,” said Moran.

“Well, nothing seems to really be working –” said Moran, sighing. “What should I do with you Molly Hooper?”

A week. It had been a week.

“Just kill me,” said Molly quietly.

“There’s no fun in that.”

The harness she was hanging from did not numb the pain enough to prevent her brain from knowing what was happening to her body.

“Why do you want to know how he survived?” asked Molly helplessly.

“Closure, Miss Hooper. I wish to know how Sherlock Holmes bested my friend. It’s only a little thing – you can just tell me,” crooned the despicable man.

“No,” said Molly with the same resolve.

“I do wonder where all this courage comes from.”

“I doubt you’ll find out,” said Molly.

“No – I don’t think so,” he said. “But I could take it out of you, Molly Hooper.”

“Never,” said Molly.

“We shall see about that,” said Moran. He lowered her harness so that she was eye level to him. A little more. Now she would have to look up to him. Molly cursed her short height and inability to even now reach her legs out into the floor.

“I feel like your strength comes from your hair,” said Moran.

“Just pull it out,” spat Molly.

Moran took out a pair of scissors.

“I have something worse planned.”

No – no, _no._ Molly loved her hair. Brown, and annoyingly straight. She cursed it every morning since she was twelve and now – she would rather die than see this man snip off bits of it slowly.

Molly tried to move further away from him. She tried to push herself out of the way.

Moran reached out, and took a bit of her hair – slicing it off deliberately.

Molly choked.

“You know Miss Hooper –” said Moran quietly, “You are a very pathetic version of _human beings.”_

Molly could feel her hair fall around her. Her father used to love her hair, she remembered. He would finger it gently, tell Molly she was the prettiest girl he had seen and Molly would snuggle beside him. He’d ask her what she would like to do when she grew up, and Molly would say that she’d like to be a witch.

_“Why witch?” asked her father._

_“No princess has brown hair and brown eyes. I might as well be a witch. They keep hurting the witches in the stories. I’d like to teach them a lesson on behalf of the witches.”_

“I haven’t quite seen a worse version,” continued Moran conversationally.

Tears began to roll down Molly’s cheeks.

Snip, snip. More clumps of hair fell.

She had never felt so exposed. So bare – so disgusting. So contaminated.

“You’re a small, weak woman – you dated Jim and you didn’t realize who he was. You’re a very stupid woman, I should think. The real mystery is why Sherlock Holmes regards you so much.”

Snip, snip. It was physical pain.

Molly couldn’t help it. She felt weak, she felt like she was crumbling under Moran’s feather touch.

“Sherlock,” she whispered. “Please. Make him stop. Someone. Anyone.”

“He doesn’t really care about you,” said Moran quietly. “Don’t be foolish, Miss Hooper.”

Sherlock cared about Molly. He had kept her safe for so many weeks. He had kept her happy. Being with Sherlock had been the most comfortable time of her life. She had never met someone as attune to her needs, never been with anyone who handled fingers and thumbs with as much care as he did. Sherlock was – he cared about her. He had to.

“Oh yes, he cares about you as a friend,” said Moran. “But between John and you? Ask yourself, Miss Hooper.”

Snip, snip. Snip, snip.

Molly went deep inside herself and hid inside her own little room. She was in Bakerstreet, and it was quiet. There was no one there.

 _Well done, Molly Hooper,_ a voice very similar to Sherlock’s baritone said. _You’ve made a Mind Flat._

The Molly in the flat was crying as well. Her hair was falling.

 _Why don’t you shut it out?_ Asked the voice.

 _I can’t,_ she whispered back.

 _Come on, Molly,_ he whispered. _You can do it._

Molly reached again, inside herself, into the dark recesses of her mind. She went inside, further and further.

 _Who are you, Molly?_ He asked.

_I don’t know. I’m a pathologist. I’m not someone who saves the day, Sherlock. I can’t do this. Please stop him. I can’t do this. I can’t._

Snip, snip. She was resurfacing.

_A pathologist that has to survive this. Find out how to handle this, Molly. You can do it. I know you can._

Snip, snip.

_She was five when she was first bullied. They had pulled her hair. Now, so many years later, Moran was mutilating her hair just like those boys had done. They’d thrown rocks at her._

_What had Molly done then?_

_That’s right, Molly, you’re getting there,_ pseudo Sherlock told her.

_I’d cried, Sherlock. I hadn’t done anything except cried, picked up my books, and left, said Molly dismally._

_If you don’t understand the beauty of that alone, Molly Hooper, I can’t very well help you, can I?_

Snip, snip. Her hair was down to her ears, in the roughest, most mutilated cut she had seen.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Reviews are my favourite kind of love.


	3. Superpowers

Light filtered into the warehouse, and Molly looked up. It was impossible to sleep, chained to a harness. A week and a half. Three days since her hair had been snipped off her head.

The birds began to twitter, and through Molly’s swollen eyes, she saw them fly off. Upon the ground, in the mud worms wriggled free. Molly saw a variety of flora and fauna fly into the mini ecosystem, she saw the little plants growing, she saw the sparrows that had laid eggs in the window of the warehouse.

She had been watching them for a while now. Those little hatchlings worked their way into reality, and she had been rooting for them for a while now. On one of the days, when Sonja had been around, she had asked her to please leave a little of her food for the hunting parents.

Sonja hadn’t looked at her with a lot of seriousness.

Molly liked watching the mornings. She hadn’t slept, harnesses were hard to sleep in.

She screamed for Sherlock, these days. After her tantalizing hints in the mind palace, Molly wished for him to return, for him to fix this, for him to come for her. And then the mornings came. The nights were obviously awful.

But the mornings – the mornings made her sing.

 _“I’ll hold your head, dear, make sure no one’s gonna wake you. Tomorrow you’ll still be here, no matter where your dreams take you,”_ she sang. The words came easily.

_“_ _Put down this suitcase_ _– this weapon of yours. The struggle is over; you don't need it no more. You can't remember lonely. You forgot about bored. And nothing's the same – since you walked through this door,” she had been baking, by herself, in Sherlock’s kitchen._

_“Why do you sing that, Molly?” asked the deep baritone of Sherlock._

_Molly promptly dropped a bag of flour. “I’m – um – I didn’t know you were listening. I wasn’t – erm – I wasn’t trying to disturb you.”_

_“I know you weren’t,” said Sherlock impatiently. “Why do you sing that?”_

_Molly blinked, out of confusion. “I dunno – I just do.”_

_“You sing that on particular times. Once a week, approximately. Sometimes twice. And only when you bake, or when you think you’re alone.”_

_“I – um. I dunno. It’s a nice song?”_

_“Molly,” said Sherlock, enunciating the syllables of her name that got her incredibly turned on._

_“Why do you sing that?”_

_Molly looked at her shoes. “I feel like it’s about me,” she said quietly._

_“The singer or the one she addresses?” asked Sherlock._

_“A bit of both, I think.”_

_“Both?” questioned Sherlock._

_“I dunno, Sherlock. It’s like a home I never had – and someone’s giving it to me. It reminds me of something lost, but – um. Not quite sure I ever had it in the first place.”_

_“Did your father sing it to you?” asked Sherlock._

_Molly smiled. “Dad couldn’t sing. Not everything has a deep sentimental attachment. It’s just a song. I found it in University.”_

_“Molly, I don’t understand.”_

_“Neither do I much,” shrugged Molly. “I like it.”_

Her eyes snapped open. _“This roof is a blanket,”_ she whispered. “ _That’s keeping you warm. Inside the silence – after the storm.”_

* * *

 

“Yet to be broken. It’s been quite a while,” said Moran when Rook came in.

“She’s one of the strangest I’ve seen,” said Rook, looking into the next room, where Molly was watching the birds.

“They all break in the end. I just don’t want to build her an immunity.”

* * *

 

Sonja was here today. That made Molly feel better. She wasn’t as despicable as Moran, and that made her feel better anyhow.

Molly’s sessions with Moran were inconsistent. Sometimes, Moran insisted on nighttime traumas, other times, it continued through the day. Generally when Sonja came in, Moran began in the afternoon. Sonja had only come thrice in the last week and a half, but it was a small relief.

And she gave Molly food, so that was always good.

Molly thirstily drank the water provided by the blonde woman.

“Why do you do that?”

Her voice was low, almost as if she spoke into the vibrations of the air instead of speaking out loud. Molly was momentarily stymied at being asked, and only managed to blink through the puffed eyes.

“I’m sorry?” Molly croaked.

“That thing –” said Sonja. “That thing where you – you sing.”

She looked perplexed, and more confused that she had asked than about Molly’s singing.

“It helps me block him out,” she said.

Sonja seemed to be on the verge of saying something, but she left it in the air.

Molly was bamboozled for a second. The woman did nothing almost everytime she came, except for giving her food and water. Molly wondered – what an odd person.

* * *

 

Sonja couldn’t help it; she had never seen anyone like her. In whatever her hard life had been, she had never seen a victim respond like Molly. Many of them sang when they were alone, but they almost always did so out of obsession, out of madness.

She was such a strange specimen of a human. She sang and sang and sang, and she asked for food for the birds and she watched the sunrise and she cried when her hair had been cut and made Sonja feel disgusted by the way it had happened.

Sonja was watching as he circled her, cutting her brown hair in bits and pieces. They still littered her feet, and Moran insisted on leaving them there. Sonja had watched as tears slowly rolled down Molly’ cheeks. She had seen the obvious disgust in them, the anger.

Sonja felt disgusted as well.

She felt like she had performed a role in the rape of Molly Hooper, when no rape had really happened.

She was beginning to feel for the victim, and Sonja was worried. This wasn’t professionality. She needed to shake out Molly Hooper and her dumb song out of her head. She needed to focus on the completion of the job.

* * *

 

 _“What did you do when those boys were hurting you, Molly Hooper?”_ the deep baritone persisted. It was late, late in the night, and Sonja had left.  

“I don’t _know,_ Sherlock!” screamed Molly. “I don’t _know!”_

“You really are branching out with those screams, aren’t you?”

Molly couldn’t help it. What was he doing to her this time, her wild brain tried to ask. The torment of pain never settled, and these odd sorts of questions caused continuous chaos in her head.

“ _What did you do?”_

Molly was crying, and crying. What was it this time? Burning knives, thumbscrews again? Or was he being neat and breaking another one of her joints? Molly’s wildly agonized brain couldn’t comprehend.

_Who are you, Molly Hooper?_

“I don’t know,” she sobbed. “I’m a pathologist.”

“I can see we’re finally losing sanity,” said Moran conversationally.

“Now, Molly, I need you to concentrate,” said Moran. “Tell me what you know about Sherlock surviving. And then follow it up with what Jim did on that roof. And then follow it up with what you know about this Magnussen case.”

Molly thought wildly. She couldn’t handle more pain.

“Or now, I am going to break your fingers.”

Molly might as well have died of the fear alone. 

“How did Sherlock survive?”

Molly’s heart beat rapidly.

“How did he, Molly?”

_Why do you sing that?_

“How did he do that?”

 _I sing that because it makes me_ feel.

It was like a miniature light bulb that went popping in Molly’s head.

She went deeply quiet for a second. _I sing it because it makes me feel._

_You’re getting there, Molly. You’re very close._

“How did he do it, Molly?”

“ _Take off your shoes now, you’ve come a long way. You’ve walked all these miles and now you’re in the right place,”_ sang Molly, with cold determination.

She could see the fury on Moran’s face.

_“This is your party, and everyone came. Everyone’s smiling, and singing your name.”_

“How did he do it, Miss Hooper?”

_“And the nightmares and monsters, your biggest fears, seem lightyears away. No they won’t find you here.”_

Moran did manage to break her finger in the end, but he stopped at two fingers.

* * *

 

Molly wasn’t home yet. Molly wasn’t there.

She was everywhere in the inanimate objects, but she was nowhere in Bakerstreet.

Sherlock could feel her presence, almost as a physical identity in Bakerstreet. The little spoon she kept specifically for eating pudding when Sherlock was being particularly exasperating. The lamp on her bedside, her favourite spot on the sofa. The stack of novels Molly kept with her, which included everything from terribly trashy romances to _To Kill a Mockingbird._

Sherlock could feel her tantalizing face everywhere he went. He dreamed of her, and she was always hurt in the worst of ways. She was in his dreams, encouraging him. She was in his reality, appearing to make her usual coffee, or to bake as she always did. Cinnamon tarts littered the house, with cookies and little bits of food, which sent Mrs. Hudson into transports of delight.

Why wasn’t Molly home yet?

Why was she keeping out of his presence, why did she always, _always_ do this to him?

She waltzed into his life, making sure he became clean of his drug habit. She gave him body parts for his birthday, with muffins. He had always depended on her, and when he really needed it, Molly would be the one who needed him.

He almost hated her, for entering that Christmas party, dressed like that, making him _want_ so desperately. Making him wish he could have her locked in his bedroom, smelling of him and claiming her where the stupid cakes claimed her previously.

And he wished she was here.

 _Molly, where are you?_ Asked Sherlock, almost desperately. _I need you._

* * *

 

It was almost as if she was invincible after that.

Moran couldn’t hurt her, he couldn’t touch her. He tried, but Molly built a very peculiar immunity to him.

Two weeks had passed, and Moran hadn’t managed to make any headway, simply because Molly had found her secret equation. She had found her method of survival.

She could feel. That was her superpower. Molly intended to use it.

She felt it fully. She didn’t block it out anymore. She allowed herself to feel the brunt of the pain Moran so happily bestowed on her, she opened her barriers, she opened herself to the pain. She could feel every flaming body part, and she found her center.

She was able to maintain order in the chaos of her pain. Where the mind flat in her head had become disarrayed, destroyed, everywhere, it was now becoming ordered. It was looking easier. She felt every single bit of what was given to her, and she allowed herself to be her.

She didn’t scream anymore for Sherlock to come and save her.

She was going to save herself.

 _Good girl,_ said the Sherlock of her head appreciatively.

Molly looked at Moran fiercely whenever he came. She burned with a fire in her eyes, something no one could put down. She could see him becoming more and more frustrated with her, Moran didn’t enjoy it when small, weak things were not hurt. And it had been two weeks. This was taking longer than he had ever thought.

* * *

 

“How is she doing _that?”_ asked Rook, almost appreciative. She had seen Molly go through a six hour torture session, with pain on pain, and Moran had broken her fingers, as well. Molly didn’t flinch for a second. Even the ones that built an immunity to torture used to flinch and scream. Molly would grin at Moran, openly, fiercely, strongly, and say something like, “Well, that certainly hurt a lot. But I think I’ll live.”

_What was wrong with this girl?_

“She’ll break, don’t worry,” said Moran, gnashing his teeth. Rook highly doubted it.

“She hasn’t broken yet. The only time she looked close was when you pulled that thing with her hair.”

“Hmm,” muttered Moran. “I wonder…”

* * *

 

“How are you doing that?” Sonja’s quiet voice filtered into Molly’s mind.

“What?” asked Molly politely.

“ _That,”_ Sonja waved in Molly’s general direction.

“I’m not sure,” said Molly, coughing “I don’t quite know how I am doing whatever it is that’s keeping me safe. All I know is that it’s my immunity. It’s my superpower. It’s what I’m good at. No one is going to save me but myself.”

Sonja was looking at her with so much curiosity, Molly almost hugged her.

“I’ve never seen anyone quite like you,” she said softly.

“That’s the maximum amount of expression I’ve seen from you, you know?” croaked Molly. “You don’t talk a lot when you come. All I’ve figure is that you prefer knives to guns and you like pink, for some reason.”

Sonja swiftly scanned Molly’s face. “Why were you paying attention?”

Molly shifted in the harness. “Could you fix my bra strap, please? It’s interfering with the harness and making me itch. Yes, thank you. I pay attention because – well, I dunno. I just always pay attention to people.”

“That’s – um. That’s good.”

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Anddddd that's that. Reviews are love!


	4. Hardly Sleeping

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> It gets a lot better after this!

Molly could now watch the insects and plants with relative ease.

Everything still hurt. Everything was still paining. But she felt – freer. She was going to survive this, and it was going to work out for the best. She kept repeating that to herself.

A lot of Molly’s life had been coloured by Darwin. He had painted her younger years, splashed across her life in medical school and had been part of everything Molly had ever done.

The elegance of Darwin’s theory was something so fantastic that Molly had thought over it for so long – and right now, she was watching these little living creatures grow out of the very earth, almost popping into existence without thought.

Natural selection.

The tough ones survive, the ones who are able to adapt.

And through the simplicity of the initial reality, endless forms most beautiful, come up.

Molly ruminating on the underlying theme of humanity was quite common now – since she had found her peace of mind, she was able to think about such topics without too much discomfort. And besides. That Sherlockian voice still persisted sometimes.

_You’ve come very far, Molly. But you’re not quite there yet._

_I know,_ she said. _I don’t know what to do next._

_Think, Molly. What did you do when those boys hurt you?_

_You keep repeating that, but it is yet to make sense._ Molly was sardonic in her head. Brilliant.

_Come on, Molly. Endless forms most beautiful. Of what?_

_That’s Darwin, Sherlock!_ Molly was indignant. _That doesn’t count! That’s cheating._

Sherlock of her head chuckled. _Endless forms most beautiful, Molly Hooper. Endless forms most beautiful._

Molly was retreating more into the realm of metaphor and philosophy, which didn’t surprise her. Science was philosophy, after all. It was just hard to focus on the philosophical aspect when confronted with a woman whose heart had failed. Mundanity generally pushed these concerns to the background.

* * *

 

It was funny how quickly Molly had grown on him once she entered his life. It was almost like John, the only difference was he had always kept Molly at an arms distance, away from him, away from his abrasive personality.

Molly was too good for that.

And then she wandered again into his life, like a fixture that was persistent in its ability to stick. Molly and Sherlock had formed such a coordinated dance through the month of staying together. And they always were in sync, almost all the time.

John had actually come in to find Molly drinking coffee and controlling Sherlock with small looks.

He had entered, ready to give his speech of righteous fury, about being called away from his pregnant wife, to find Sherlock in his usual excitable state when hot in the chase of a new murderer, or maybe a new rapist, or maybe a new blackmailer.

“Excellent, John, we need to go to Scotland Yard!” exclaimed Sherlock upon the entry of the very disgruntled John.

“You know I have a pregnant wife?” asked John.

“Well, she’s nowhere close to labo –”

“Mmh. Sherlock,” said Molly quietly from her place on the desk, reading a book.

“Sorry,” he addressed Molly. “I apologize, John, but I’m sure the serial rapist can take precedence over your still not giving birth wife.”

“What – how did she do that?” asked John.

“What? Who? Well, never mind. So the rapist always takes girls in a particular order, and he doesn’t exactly have a patter, which would be clever – except – the randomness is his pattern!”

Sherlock practically hopped. Molly silently offered a black marker, not lifting her eyes from her book. Sherlock took it, popping the cap, and continuing, as if nothing out of the ordinary had happened. “So he attacks here, here and there – and he’s going to continue onwards on this path. Can’t you see, John?” asked Sherlock.

“Did you – did you just see that?” he asked Sherlock, looking between Molly and him.

“John, please try to concentrate. Idiots aren’t appreciated arou –”

“Sherlock,” came Molly’s quiet reprimand.

“Oh come on!” exclaimed Sherlock. “He’s used to it, Molly, he can handle it!” whined Sherlock.

Molly lifted her eyes and stared at him from above her glasses.

Sherlock glared back at her.

“Oh, alright,” sighed Molly. “I can’t teach you all the social cues. Have your toast.”

“Thank you. Now go away,” said Sherlock, yanking the toast.

“She’s making you _eat?”_ asked John, incredulous.

“I’m leaving,” said Molly. “In a bit.”

“What on earth are both of you playing at?” asked John, visibly shaken.

Where was Molly when he needed his markers and toast? Sherlock wasn’t quite sure how long it had been since he slept or ate.

“Come on, mate. You need rest,” said John.

“Molly was nice this way. She made sure I slept,” murmured Sherlock.

“Yeah, she was bloody good at handling you,” said John quietly.

“She’s a good person,” mumbled Sherlock. “She’s always been a good person. Why does she love me, John?”

“Pardon?” asked John.

“Molly,” said Sherlock quietly. “She always loved me. She didn’t even flinch when I asked her to fake my death. Why?”

“Yeah, mate, but you have me and Mary. You’re not unlovable, much as you like believing otherwise.”

“I’ve always tried with you, John,” said Sherlock dismissively. “I never tried with her. I never made the effort.”

John didn’t have an answer to that.

“She’s too good,” said Sherlock. “Why does she have to be so kind? It’s annoying. It’s anomalous. She’s an anomaly. Everytime, every second, every single minute. She’s always been an anomaly.”

John probably would have liked to hear where Sherlock was going with this, but Sherlock bit his lip, deciding it was time for some sleep.

* * *

 

“What are you going to do next?” asked Rook.

“She’s being frustrating,” said Moran, gritting his teeth.

“It’s like you can’t hurt her, I know,” said Rook. “But what are you going to do next?”

“It’s been two weeks and a half now. I’m going to use the Chinese methods.”

Rook turned to face him.

“That’s very near despicable,” she informed him easily.

“It will break her,” said Moran with a maniacal glint.

“Don’t be stupid,” spat Rook. “Haven’t you seen her? The more pressure you put on her, the more fucking strong she gets!”

“She’s just a pathetic little girl!” said Moran just as loudly.

“I haven’t seen anything like it!” said Rook back. “Have you met someone who laughed in the face of a fucking burning knife? You’ve fucking branded her with iron, and she’s not done anything. She fucking remembers my name.”

“Sentiment getting the better of you, Miss Rook?” asked Moran.

“Hardly,” said Rook. “This is admiration.”

“Of what? A girl who can’t handle pain?”

“A girl who seems to be able to accept the pain and live.”

“Don’t become romantic,” said Moran.

“It’s not romance when it’s fucking true.”

Sonja always had the tendency to swear when she was agitated to the core. And she hardly ever got agitated.

* * *

 

She grinned at Sonja. “Hello,” she said brightly. “Do we have the regular disgusting gruel?”

“Stop smiling,” said Sonja emotionlessly.

“Well, if I have to face the dirt in my shoes everyday, I might as well smile brightly and fucking piss him off,” said Molly uncharacteristically.

Sonja stared at her.

“I heard you swearing,” said Molly apologetically. “I was going with what you do.”

Sonja blinked.                                                                     

“It was really entertaining.”

Blink.

“I think you’re pretty cool too.”

Blink.

“Put me in a good mood.”

Blink.

“Say something.”

Blink. “You’re the strangest person I’ve met,” muttered Sonja.

“Thanks,” said Molly. A little of her weariness returned. “I’m really tired though. I haven’t slept since I came here.”

“The harness is designed to prevent sleep,” said Sonja, automatically.

“I figured,” said Molly. “We have to keep pushing forward, I suppose,” she sighed.

“Will you really? For months? For years?” asked Sonja darkly.

“I don’t know,” said Molly. She sounded weary again. “I will, I know I will,” Sonja briefly noted the fire in her eyes again. “But I’d be lying if it didn’t scare the fuck out of me.”

“Everyone gets scared,” said Sonja. “What you do is… it’s different,” she said ponderously.

“I hope it keeps working, in that case,” said Molly, squinting through her swollen eyes. “Lord knows I need it.”

* * *

 

It was quiet for a day or two.

Molly felt deepening apprehension. Moran seemed thoughtful while he did the usual, and while it hurt, his silence was a lot more worrying.

Molly didn’t know what to make of it.

* * *

 

He was untying her from the harness. It had been three weeks now.

Molly was momentarily so shocked, she forgot to scream. Her bones were aching, but she didn’t have the space to comprehend that, out of sheer shock. Her sleep deprived brain was creating a lot of periods of retreat for her into the mind flat she had constructed.

Molly felt her arms slag out of the sheer relief of being allowed to breath. She had bruises around her chest.

“What are you doing?” Molly croaked, panicking.

The old fear was resurfacing.

Moran gripped her hair and dragged her to a chair. Molly yelled in pain, to no avail.

Molly was trying to regulate her breathing. Fear was returning, and with fear, chaos reigned. With chaos, the pain became infinite, it became unblockable, it became terrifying. And when the pain became that scary, Molly lost sanity.

He bodily threw her into a chair and tightened cuffs onto her. She couldn’t move. A large leather strap secured her head.

Molly was biting down on fear by this time. She was terrified, she was ever so scared. Another form of psychological torture, like her hair. It was happening again, and again, and again, and it was going to kill her this time.

_Steady, Molly,_ said Sherlock of her head.

_I don’t know what’s happening,_ whispered Molly, fear gripping.

_It’s going to be fine,_ whispered Sherlock. _One last push, Molly. One last one._

_Sherlock,_ she practically sobbed. _What’s happening?_

He placed her under the ceiling. A single drop of water fell on her head.

Molly felt the cool drop trickle down her head and hair, rushing into her clothes. Molly watched, trying not to betray fear. Moran found fear very close to a turn on.

He left.

Molly stared.

There was no one there.

“What are you doing?” she called.

_Drip._

She tried shaking her head, but the leather strap stopped her. _Drip._

What new form of pain was this? Molly was wildly thinking.

_Calm yourself, Molly,_ said Sherlock. _Come on, what did you do when those boys hurt you?_

_Sherlock, please, Molly said, panicking. Sherlock, please – I haven’t understood that, I don’t think I’m about to._

_Molly, concentrate. Breathe._

_Drip._

Her hair was beginning to get wet.

It was another method of torture. A drop of water every few seconds till morning came.

Molly’s heart was sinking visibly every few seconds.

_Drip._

* * *

 

Molly couldn’t think. It was becoming hazy again. The mentally constructed Mind Flat was showing signs of strain now.

_Drip._

Molly realized what he had done. It was degrading, it was unthinkable, it was almost rotting. It was being left to the dogs for death. Midnight was approaching, and Molly wasn’t being able to concentrate on anything except the steady mingle of her own tears along with the falling water.

Underlying themes of humanity? Darwin? Survival? It all meshed into something horrible and unseemly.

_Drip._

* * *

 

Molly didn’t understand what was happening to her anymore. It was melding into a mesh of water and colours. Her scarred cornea was very close to unable to being able to see anyway.

Molly couldn’t tell the time anymore. It was dark. She could hear all sorts of little creatures, and it wasn’t helping. The sounds she used to find comforting were becoming a loud chorus of disorientation.

_Drip._

Molly couldn’t fall so soon.

* * *

 

_Drip._

_Drip._

_Drip._

Molly was crying, and crying. She couldn’t see, everything hurt, and she was still not safe in her home. She missed her cat. She missed her room. She missed her movies. She missed her books. She missed baking.

She was not going to make it alive, and for the first time, Molly Hooper felt the sinking reality that she will not make it alive from this ordeal.

Sherlock’s voice was undecipherable in all the other mess. Her clothes were soaked.

_Drip._

She missed _Sherlock._

She missed everything about him. She missed his morbid humor, she missed his laugh, his deep baritone, his strange ability to wrench the best of her. She missed the dark way he spoke, his childishness, she missed his violin. Oh god, how she missed his violin.

_Drip._

Molly wouldn’t see him again.

_Drip._

Molly won’t sing again.

_Drip._

Her dreams were taking her away.

_Drip._

The sun hit the horizon.

_Drip._

Molly squinted to see the pinkness of dawn, first rays of sun dispersing into the sky.

_Drip._

It was like a little light bulb again.

There was a flush of memories through her head – Molly running through the garden, chasing a swallow. Molly examining an ant’s nest. Molly and Sherlock in sunny London, solving cases. Molly sitting with her father, who was then dying, on a porch, watching the sunset.

She felt the sudden and overwhelming reality of _existence._ Molly was real, she was here, she was alive. Molly was breathing Molly was thinking Molly was loving. The sun was rising and Molly was alive.

_Molly?_ Came Sherlock’s voice.

_Oh Sherlock,_ Molly was sobbing.

_Molly, you’re nearly there._

_Where?_ She asked.

_Endless forms most beautiful, Molly?_

_Drip._

_What did you do to those boys, Molly? The ones that hurt you?_

_Nothing. I never did anything to them._

_You didn’t grudge them anything?_ Prodded Sherlock.

_Why should I?_ asked Molly, genuinely surprised. _They’re_ people. _People make mistakes. People… feel._

Sherlock’s voice became completely silent.

The little baby sparrows that had grown during Molly’s stay woke and fluttered.

The underlying theme for humanity’s rise into the universe may be survival, but the very human ability to feel was perhaps, the reason why humans had managed to _live_ for so long. Molly could _feel._ Molly was the strongest she had ever been.

Molly felt emblazoned with power.

She was Molly Hooper. She had dated and dumped the greatest criminal mastermind of the century. She made Sherlock Holmes eat his toast. She was a pathologist at Barts, the most prestigious institution. She was Molly bloody Hooper, and she was fucking fantastic. She had survived three weeks in this torture house and thought nothing of it. She hadn’t judged Moran because he was human, and Molly didn’t judge. She had made friends with an ex con and a murderer, because Molly was unusually attracted to strange kinds of people. Molly Hooper felt the pain and sorrows of all the little things in the world, rose from those endless forms most beautiful, into her own category of unique.

In her own way, Molly was just as much of a thrill seeker as John.

_John._

Her friends.

Molly had had enough of this nonsense. She was tired of this, thank you. She was going to get out of this, if it pleases my dear Moran.

* * *

 

And he was coming in. He was entering, to see how she was doing.

Molly rearranged her features. She brought back the chaos of her mind. From the corner of her mind, she saw Moran smiling.

“You see Rook? I told you I’d get there.”

Sonja was staring at her.

Molly waited for him to touch her.

She felt his fingers. She felt him undo her cuffs, undo the leather strap, and then she reached.

She grabbed his bloody stick with which he had beaten Molly so many times. She grabbed it as soon as she could, and she scuffled her way into beating him into a hard pulp. Through her haphazard attack, Moran gripped his weapon, ready to shoot her, but Sonja swiftly disarmed him and gave an expert hit at the back of his head.

The man fell to the floor. They only had a few minutes till he woke.

Sonja nodded to her. “Go. I’ll tie him up. Take this,” she gave Molly a gun.

“The safety’s off, so you be careful.”

Molly nodded sharply.

* * *

 

Now that the deed was done, she felt a bit of panic. Come on Molly, get out. Get out, get out, get out, get out, get out.

_Molly, you need to leave. Chances are, Rook managed to get to some rope and Moran woke up before she could tie him._

_Her name is SONJA,_ Molly said to Sherlock.

_Sherlock chuckled in her head._

Molly ran through the thickets and weeds, her feet feeling the twigs and grass. They pinched her sensitive and bruised skin. She felt disoriented, suddenly, unable to figure where to go. She gripped the side of her rib – a cut had begun to bleed and she was beginning to lose blood.

Molly wasn’t sure how much blood she had lost last three weeks and she didn’t want to take a chance.

She needed to find a road and get a car to pick her up. She needed to leave. She needed to put this bunker behind her, she needed to get back to Toby and Sherlock and her Morgue.

She squinted to see lights in front – her swollen eyes couldn’t see anything more. She lifted her hand and waved. The pain it took to scream was only just registering.

“ _MOLLY HOOPER!”_ came a savage yell.

Molly panicked again.

It was Moran, he was behind her. Molly would have screamed, but the escape had taken away her adrenaline.

Molly remembered the gun by her side.

“ _I’m going to get you, you stupid bitch.”_

Molly stared at him, almost as if the idea was surreal.

She opened her dry and chapped lips. “I’m sorry Mr. Moran,” she croaked. She saw a blond figure behind him, preparing her own gun. “I forgive you for your crimes, but someone has to save me, and it sure as hell is not going to be anyone else but me.”

_Bang._

The man slumped to his feet.

Molly dropped to her knees. The noises and lights were coming closer.

“Molly? Molly, it’s me, come on Molly?” someone was bending over her.

“John?” asked Molly

“Oh god, what has he done to you?” muttered John. John must have noticed Sonja, for he got up, arming himself.

“No!” croaked Molly desperately. “No! She helped me – don’t, please don’t hurt her.”

“What – well, nevermind. Let’s get you fixed up. Why are you all wet?”

“It was a torture method –” said Molly desperate to get out. “I’ll explain later.”

“Molly?” came another familiar voice. It wasn’t how she remembered it though. There was no anger, no irritation, no sharp edge to the voice.

“Sherlock?” whispered Molly.

“Molly...” Sherlock lowered himself to her level. “Come on Molly,” he said. “You’re going to be fine.”

“I know I am,” said Molly, giving him a grin with bloody teeth. “You told me so everyday of my stay in that horrifying place.”

And that’s when Molly Hooper passed out.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I LOVE reviews.


	5. Fighting For the Soldiers

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> DONE.

She had been glowing.

Sonja had seen Molly, she had seen the way the little woman had given her little speech, and then shot. Moran had fallen, and Sonja had seen Molly radiate with something ethereal.

Sonja had never before felt so humbled.

Molly was being dragged off into one of the ambulances, with the EMTs. The detective – Sherlock Holmes was watching her. “John, go with them. EMTs won’t be enough.”

John nodded. He spotted Sonja. “Molly said she helped her.”

Sherlock looked over Sonja. “I don’t think so. You’re a murderer, an assassin, one with a very specific skillset of breaking, torturing, and collecting information. You’re originally from Poland and you’re not very good at hiding the scar from the machete you got during your childhood. Why would you be helping Molly?”

Why was she helping Molly Hooper? Why would she help someone when she had kept the sentimentality out of the job for so long?

Sonja grasped at straws while the detective’s face pierced through her. “I helped her –” said Sonja, struggling. “I helped her because she would sing.”

Something visibly cleared in his face – “Take off your shoes dear, you’ve come a long way?” he asked, speaking very fast.

“Yes,” said Sonja emotionlessly. “All the time.”

“No –” said Sherlock disbelievingly, “She only sings that once in a while. When she’s really lonely.” Sonja said nothing, before something resurfaced in her mind. Sherlock had turned away.

“She shot him,” said Sonja. “She shot Moran. She was half blind, almost every part of her body broken, and she shot him, straight through the heart.”

The detective had his back turned, so Sonja did not see the look of mixed admiration and shock.

* * *

 

“She’s in a really bad shape,” said John tiredly. “The Doctors say she’s going to make it out alive, though.”

“How bad?” asked Mary.

“Pretty bad. Her Cranium’s been hit over and over, bruised badly. Both her ankles are sprained, her left arm is broken. A number of fingers have been broken. And there was an iron branding on her back. The shoulders were all off set. I fixed them as soon as possible. There were all these contusions. There’s a rib broken, one knee fractured and the other knee has slipped out of joint. One of her eyes has been scarred in the most horrible way. Anyway, yeah. The joint sprains are endless.”

“Poor Molly,” muttered Mary.

“Moran’s dead,” said Sherlock exhausted, from behind.

“Dead?” echoed John.

“Molly shot him in front of us,” said Sherlock. “He was rushing towards her, and she had been given a gun by the Polish woman who has a British accent, so she aimed and shot. Half blind shot.”

“She killed him?” asked Mary.

“It was a fatal shot. Right to the heart.”

“How?” asked John.

“The woman – The Polish girl. She said Molly said something very odd before shooting,” said Sherlock thoughtfully.

“What did she say?” asked John.

“No one’s going to save me but me,” recited Sherlock.

Mary began laughing. Both the men looked at her. Mary smiled, “rest assured, boys, she’ll make it out with a bang.”

“I don’t understand,” said John. “This is Molly. She hasn’t hurt anyone in her life.”

“Molly’s always been brave,” said Sherlock softly. “She’s always been strong. And she’s always been capable of fending for herself, which is why all of us depend on her for normality so much. Despite the fact that she’s hardly normal, and all of us don’t _like_ normality.”

“She keeps you grounded,” said Mary.

“Yes. And this time – she kept herself grounded. Trust Molly Hooper to go through this ridiculous kind of mind set of saving herself before anyone came, because she’s Molly Hooper, and no one saves her but herself.”

“She’s going to be fine,” said Mary. “She’s probably going to want to learn how to shoot.”

* * *

 

Sherlock was watching Molly sleep. Her hair went everywhere when she used to sleep, but right now, there was an artificial, doll-like beauty about the idly lying Molly Hooper. Her hands were by her sides, and her face set. Her hair didn’t go everywhere, they were parted neatly and arranged, cut till her ears. He wondered how that had happened. It was eerie. Sherlock sincerely wished Molly would wake up, that she could wake up, because Molly lying like this made him think about how Molly would lie like this when dead. No more red flush in her cheeks, no more parted lips, murmuring as she slept, no more quiet mutters.

He was watching her most of the time, entering his mind palace, wondering exactly what had happened.

And Molly was lying there, almost dead.

Sherlock’s head filled with relief when he saw her, when he remembered how close he had been to losing her.

Mary entered the secluded room. “Hello,” she said quietly.

Sherlock nodded.

“How is she?”

“Stable,” drew Sherlock.

“Hmm.”

“I haven’t slept in a while,” said Sherlock.

“Go sleep on the sofa over there. I’ll wake you when she wakes.”

Sherlock nodded. “Thank you,” he said.

When Sherlock shut his eyes, he saw Molly Hooper, standing erect, in the middle of the field, gun in hand. He saw her murmur the unintelligible words that Sonja had later explained, and shoot, aiming truly. He saw her shoot someone when she shouldn’t, by definition, have the energy to do so.

* * *

 

The blonde woman entered the room. “Hello,” said Mary brightly.

Sonja nodded.

“Molly’s good,” said Mary. “You’re the assassin?” she asked.

“Yes,” said Sonja. “They fixed me up and let me see Molly.”

“That’s good,” nodded Mary. “Between ourselves, Molly does have something compelling about her, does she not?”

Sonja nodded. “She was the oddest victim I have ever seen.”

Mary didn’t say anything. She stroked her belly for a bit. “Yeah?” she asked thoughtfully.

“She... I don’t know how to explain it. Initially, it had been going normally. Moran thought she’d be broken in five days. Then – something happened. She began to sing,” said Sonja, thinking about that third day of singing. “She would sing and she’d block it out, and that was _normal._ Some do that. But then something _else_ happened.”

“What?” asked Mary.

“She – she just went through something. She – she didn’t block the pain out. Which was so strange, I almost told Moran to stop. I don’t understand how she didn’t block the pain out.”

Mary shut her eyes and thought about all the torture sessions she had seen. Molly had probably broken the code for all of them. _Bravo, Molly Hooper,_ she thought.

* * *

 

Sherlock was around when Molly woke up. The blonde woman had left; Mycroft was having a session with her. Mary was knitting, watching Molly sleep and Sherlock sleep.

He was woken by Mary. “Sherlock? Molly’s awake.”

Sherlock got up finally. Molly smiled at him weakly. “Hello Sherlock.”

“I’m going to get John,” said Mary, swiftly moving out of the room.

“Molly,” said Sherlock quietly.

“Sleeping feels strange,” said Molly conversationally. “I didn’t dream at all, which was stranger.”

“You hadn’t slept in three weeks,” said Sherlock evenly.

“Well,” said Molly with a smile. “It wasn’t that bad.”

“Molly,” said Sherlock. He seemed to be struggling with something to say. “What did you mean? When you said I told you that you were going to be fine?”

Molly smiled again, shifted a little. “Ouch,” she muttered. “Well, while that man did whatever he was doing...” she began. “I had this version of you in my head. Much like you, it kept asking me cryptic questions which saved my life. It kept me sane.”

Sherlock didn’t say anything. “Why did Moran untie you?” he finally asked.

A shadow passed on Molly’s face. For a second, Sherlock assumed the worst. “He had me on a chair for the night,” said Molly. “Tied down, unable to move even my head. And there was a drop of water that fell on my head every few seconds.”

“Water rots bodies,” murmured Sherlock.

“Yes,” said Molly. “It was painful. Worst night since he cut off my hair.”

“He cut your hair?” asked Sherlock.

“Psychological torture,” said Molly. “He’d snip off my hair, bit by bit, crooning things in my ear. It was the equivalent of rape, but worse.”

Sherlock felt disgusted. Revolted. He wanted to comfort Molly, to put his arms around her. Make sure she was fine. He wanted to tell Molly that he’d missed her, that he had wisher her home everyday of her absence, that he hadn’t eaten for so long, without her looking over. But he swallowed the lump in his throat and told Molly quietly, “It’s good to have you back, Molly.”

* * *

 

All sorts of people came to visit Molly.

Mycroft came, to her delight, and looked a bit affronted when she insisted on a peck on the cheek. She just liked making him uncomfortable. Mary and John were quite constantly there. Sherlock came again and again, violin in tow, playing melodies for her. Mrs. Hudson also briefly came. Greg Lestrade came, and he smiled at her weakly, telling her not to go again, because Sherlock was unbearable. Meena and Sally Donovan came, almost crying with happiness. Sherlock informed Molly that Tom had tried to come, but had been successfully detained. Molly frowned at him, but didn’t say anything.

And then Sonja finally came to visit.

 “Hi,” said Sonja wanly. “They weren’t letting me go until Mr. Uptight figured everything about me.”

“Mycroft’s like that,” said Molly worriedly. “But they didn’t give you a hard time, did they?”

Sonja grinned sardonically. “Nothing I couldn’t handle.”

They were silent for a while.

“What are you going to do now?” asked Molly.

“Well, Mycroft’s giving me amnesty, apparently,” said Sonja. “If I agree to work for the MI6 based in London.”

Molly smiled brightly. “You’ll take it, won’t you?” she asked eagerly.

“I don’t know,” sighed Sonja. “I want to, but it seems too easy.”

Molly gripped her hand at that point. “I’m sure you’ll figure it out. You’ll be fine,” she said faithfully.

Sonja didn’t say anything, but she too came often, giving Molly company.

* * *

 

Molly was finally being let out of the hospital.           

Mycroft’s team of doctors had done what they could, and Molly had been insisting on being allowed to leave as soon as possible. John and Mary had offered their spare room, but with Mary so close, Molly would rather not take over the baby’s nursery. Rook was being given an apartment by Mycroft, and she was working with the MI6 now.

Molly was coming back to Baker Street.

Sherlock had brought her home. She had been delicate, her leg was still in a plaster. She smiled up at him, “Well, I always loved a challenge.”

Dear Lord, Sherlock had another thrill seeker living with him.

Everyone had come to Baker Street to greet Molly. Sherlock understood why everybody was doing this – they expected Molly to need company and love for now, and Molly accepted graciously.

Molly and Mary, they were becoming better and better friends by the minute.

It was late when everybody finally left. John gave Molly a final kiss and said, “Call us if he causes trouble.”

Molly laughed. “I think I’ll be the one causing trouble. Might scream in sleep and all, after all,” she said glibly.

The apartment became cold as soon as John had gone.

“Well,” said Molly. “That was nice.”

“Dull,” said Sherlock dismissively.

Molly grinned. “Just a little. But I’ve had plenty of excitement.”

“Molly –” Sherlock began. She looked at him, and her face shined. “Call me – if you need – if you need anything.”

“I will Sherlock,” said Molly.

* * *

 

She started screaming, true to her word. Sherlock ran to her room, abandoning the pretence that he had slept.

Her face was contorted and she was gasping for breath. Tears littered her face, and her whole body seemed paralysed.

Sherlock had never before felt the urge to rip someone like Moran apart, limb to limb.

“Easy Molly,” he whispered. He hadn’t even changed out of his suit yet. He rushed up to her figure, controlled her thrashing limbs. Molly’s hands began to reach out for him – Sherlock hesitated. He didn’t do _this._ This wasn’t who he was.

“Don’t hurt me,” Molly groaned in her sleep. “Sherlock – tell him not to – please,” she was moaning.

He immediately gathered her close in her bed. She was pressed close to him, still murmuring, when she woke up.

“Oh God Sherlock, I’m so sorry,” she whispered into his shirt. “He was – he was horrible. And it was so much pain, all the time. Sherlock, I thought of you all the time and you were your usual annoying self in my head, and I couldn’t do it – I almost didn’t make it. I almost forgot everything about who I was, I forgot everything, everything except the pain.” She was speaking a mile a minute.

“Then how did you survive?” Sherlock murmured into her hair.

“I –” Molly was at a loss of words. “I remembered my super power – to – to feel.”

Sherlock kept her close to him, the tiny, small, brave little Molly. He forgot how much even she needed someone at times, how she was also in want of a soldier. Molly may be strong, and endless, and powerful, but she was also human. Sherlock wanted to remind her of that. He wanted to tell her, desperately, that she wasn’t alone, despite her extraordinary capabilities. That she was _Molly._

He opened his mouth, finally. _“Take off your shoes now, you’ve come a long way, you’ve walked all these miles and now you’re in the right place.”_

Molly briefly escaped his grip to look at him.

_“This is your party – and everyone came. Everyone’s smiling, and singing your name. And the nightmares and monsters, seem lightyears away. No they won’t find you here.”_

Molly sang that song, all the time. She sang it because while she was being brave for everyone else – there was no one to be brave for her. She sang it so that she could perform the duties of being brave by herself. Sherlock – he had to remind her. She wasn’t alone.  

“ _I’ll hold your head my dear; make sure no one’s going to wake you. Tomorrow, you’ll still be here, no matter where your dreams will take you.”_

“Oh Sherlock,” she murmured.

“ _And you realise, all the falls and flights. All the sleepless nights – all the smiles and sights – they brought you here. They only brought you home.”_

Molly was smiling into his shirt. He could feel it.

“ _Put down the suitcase, this weapon of yours. The struggle is over; you don’t need it no more. You can’t remember lonely. You forgot about bored. Nothing’s the same since you walked through this door. And this roof is a blanket – that’s keeping you warm. Inside the silence, after the storm.”_

“I missed you,” she told him.

“I know,” he said.

“It was awful.”

“I can imagine.”

“You’re not going to leave?” asked Molly.

“Not unless you wish it,” said Sherlock. “You’ve always been brave, Molly Hooper. It is now officially your decision, should you wish to have someone guard you for a night.”

“Don’t go,” said Molly childishly. She fell into the bed. “Please don’t go.”

Sherlock brought her close and held her tight.

“Not unless you wish it,” whispered Sherlock.

_“Take off your shoes now,”_ hummed Sherlock. _“You’ve come a long way. Walked all these miles and now – you’re in the right place.”_

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Reviews are beautiful.

**Author's Note:**

> Reviews are lovely :)


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